


The Terms of Your Surrender

by ifinkufreaky



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Forced Orgasm, Hate Sex, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rape Fantasy, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 22:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14090592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifinkufreaky/pseuds/ifinkufreaky
Summary: You are the warrior queen of a small kingdom that lies between the domains of Harald Finehair and Ivar the Boneless. Defeated on the battlefield, you wake up to find yourself surrounded by your enemies, who have a devious plan for ensuring your total submission to their wishes for your lands.Mind the tags please. This is rape and the reader fights to various degrees through the whole story.





	The Terms of Your Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> **Not intended to be realistic!!! I know that this would be TERRIBLE if it happened in real life. It's just a fantasy and I'm not trying to make any statements about the characters or the real world in any way. These would be very traumatic events and in real life no one would react this way. If it's something that will bother you, PLEASE don't even read this, it's not worth it. But for those of you that have rape fantasies, it's ok to enjoy reading this, too. This is FICTION.**

The first time you open your eyes, you see brilliant red fabric, faintly glowing. A tent roof. Adrenaline spikes a moment later. You know whose tent this is.

Your last memory is pain blooming up over your left ear; someone must have struck you from behind on the battlefield. An ignominious way to go, never even having seen the face of the adversary to bring you down. For that reason alone you’re glad the blow didn’t kill you.

Except that now you’re in King Harald’s battle camp. You know this because no one else but that conquering bastard wastes good dyed cloth on a tent covering.

The next thing you realize is that you can’t move your arms. You may not have been dragged in with the rest of the prisoners of war, but a captive you certainly seem to be. Your forearms are stacked behind the small of your back and you’re laying on them. When you make a small movement to struggle against the ropes wrapped wide and thick around your arms, more bonds tighten around your chest: one wide band above your breasts, and one below.

You don’t realize voices had been murmuring softly at the other end of the tent until they stop. A stilted gait, accompanied by a scraping creak of stressed metal, approaches. This may be Harald’s tent, but there’s more than one king here.  You keep your eyes softly closed and force your body to go limp. Feigning sleep, you try to keep your breaths even as the weak part of your mind tries to panic. A heavy point of steel taps sternly against your breastbone. “Wakey wakey,” a smooth, youthful voice sings at you. More footsteps approach.

When you open your eyes, you almost flinch and close them again.

But that would show weakness.

Your three most hated enemies are leering down on you. Ivar the Boneless, scourge of the Christian lands, who has more recently brought his cruelty back home to harry your borders and expand his kingdom past Kattegat. Harald Finehair, whose ambition you once put off with an alliance until you could not bear to follow his banners any longer. And his brother Halfdan the Black, loyal to a fault, whose sword is so soaked with the blood of warrior and innocent alike that you’re surprised it doesn’t drip a trail of red wherever he goes.

“The princess finally awakes,” Ivar mocks, leaning on his crutch and idly sliding the tip of his heavy blade across the thin blanket that covers your body.

You shift against your bonds again, glaring up at them, making sure to hold each pair of eyes with a defiant gaze. You feel thick rope wrapped around your bent legs, too, though you are too distracted to determine the exact nature of your restraints there. “Queen,” you correct through gritted teeth.

“I never recognized that,” Harald growls, trying to sound condescending, but you can hear the anger underneath. “When your father died you should have stayed loyal. His lands belong to me now.”

“That was never our understanding of the deal,” you hiss, treading ground that you two had been over and over before things ended up on the battlefield.

Halfdan presses forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother. “You are going to have to accept it now,” he croons down at you. “Your warriors are defeated.” He dares to reach down and brush the back of his knuckles against your cheek. You always suspected he desired you. You spit on his hand and he withdraws as Ivar softly laughs. He wipes it on the corner of his tunic and his wide eyes threaten you silently from under the fringe of his forelock.

“So the battle is over,” you say, forcing your tone as confident and collected as you can manage while lying immobile on your back underneath your conquerors. “Am I here to negotiate?” You are not foolish enough to think that they don’t have the upper hand, but you are doing everything you can to remind them of your status. Your kingdom may be small but a warrior queen such as yourself should be owed respect even in defeat.

Harald’s throaty guffaw rings through the thick air of the tent, followed a moment later by Ivar’s snicker and Halfdan’s unsettling, breathy laugh. Halfdan reaches down to the blanket at your neck, knocking Ivar’s blade aside with the back of his hand. His fingers curl against the hollow of your throat as he grasps the wool and pulls it down to your waist.

You’re naked, you realize with a shock. The hemp cords wrapped around your chest frame your breasts, squeezing them up like an offering to the smirking men.

“Negotiation, yes, I like that,” Harald chuckles. “Young Ivar, here, has defined our terms. I think you will find them very interesting.” His voice hitches with even more gravel than usual. All three pairs of eyes are pooling black as they look down on your helpless form.

“ _King_ Ivar,” the handsome boy corrects irritably, scowling at his rival-turned-ally before turning his brilliant blues back to you. “You were once allied to King Harald, yes? You even came to England with us, in command of his shieldmaidens.”

Your muscles want to keep struggling, but every twitch only makes your upthrust torso look more seductive. Your arms are entirely useless behind your back, and your bonds arc your spine and press your breasts up obscenely. You press a frustrated burst of air through your nose and nod to Ivar as he watches your face with raised brows.

“Your lands may be small,” the son of Ragnar continues, “but they are… important. Lying as they do directly between my kingdom and his.” His face is dropping closer and closer to yours as he speaks, and you feel his expressive mouth hypnotizing you already. You have never bothered to hide your lust for the boy’s fine face, and now you can see he’s turning it into a weapon to use against you as he licks his lips and smiles softly. “We have taken you jointly so as not to upset our delicate alliance.” Ivar nods his head toward the brothers over his shoulder without looking at them. “But we have not been able to come to an agreement as to who should have control of your lands.”

You arc one skeptical eyebrow. “So you want me to choose for you?”

Ivar smiles indulgently, like you’re being cute. “We were going to try sharing.”

You knit your brows together, glance at the other smirking faces hovering over you. Halfdan is staring at your chest looking like he’s ready to pounce, and Harald’s knuckles are white where they grip his thick leather belt.

“Loyalty, Y/N,” Ivar says, drawing your attention back to him. He reaches up and draws two fingertips tenderly across your forehead. “That is what we want from you.”

You laugh, mocking and wild. You force your mirth louder and stronger than you feel, just to communicate how ludicrous you find the very idea.

Ivar scowls and grabs your face, fingers wrapping around your jaw and digging in until you stop cackling at him. “That is what we will force from you, whether you like it or not. We are going to turn you into our willing slave. You will not leave this tent, you will not receive a stitch of clothing, nor have any other human contact, until you submit to us fully. Until you love us. All three of us.” Your eyes are scoffing but Ivar ignores your skepticism. “And then,” he says, settling his head back with a tight-lipped smile, “you can have your throne back. And administrate the border between Harald and I, knowing you belong to us both in body, heart, and mind.”

Your jaw drops when Ivar releases it. It’s hard to think of something to say, the idea is so ridiculous. “That’s your negotiation?”

Harald nods, looming closer. “Those are the terms.”

“No.”

Ivar clucks his tongue at you. “It is not within your power to refuse.” His fingers brush against the soft skin at the side of your breast.

 “I should not have thought you all above _rape_ , of a free woman,” you spit at them in frustration.

Ivar only clucks his tongue again, shaking his head softly to deny the accusations. “Listen to me closely, Y/N.” He brings his face so close that your foreheads are almost touching. “I promise you--” his words are slow and precise “--you will not feel any of our cocks inside of you, until you are begging for them.”

Your next laugh comes out sounding just a bit hysterical. You want to insult the very thought that you’d ask these three for anything, but Ivar’s stroking fingertips are making your nipple harden of its own accord, and you can’t rip your eyes from the outline of his perfect, full lips.

“And if it doesn’t work,” Halfdan the Black snickers, “at least we all had a bit of fun before we killed you.”

“It will work,” Ivar says evenly, keeping you focused on his face. “We will convince her. I see it in her eyes, how much she longs to be tamed.”

You hate how his words make your insides squirm. Before you fully realize what you’ve done, your spittle is marring Ivar’s perfect cheekbone.

Ivar closes one eye as he wipes the offending fluid precisely onto two of his fingers. You grit your teeth, bracing for a slap, but his hand moves slowly. He carefully spreads the spit across your own cheek, dragging his fingertips against the bridge of your nose until he comes away clean. “Taming is preferable,” he announces in a tight voice, “but if you just need to be broken, we can always try that later. Get her up.”

Ivar retreats as Harald comes around to his side of the cot, Halfdan approaching your shoulder on your left. You can see their palms itching to touch your exposed breasts but they don’t – the brothers only grip you at shoulder and elbow on each side and hoist you into the air. The blanket falls away and you find that not only are your pants gone too, but the intricate ropework is holding your legs open at the thighs while binding your ankles together behind you.

There’s not much struggling you can do as the two men prop you up kneeling on the cot. The thick bands wrapped around the middle of each of your thighs are secured to something behind your back in such a way that you cannot close your legs, and Harald and Halfdan’s hands tug insistently until your knees are more than a foot apart as you balance between them. The air hits your cunt as you move, making it impossible to ignore how helplessly open to them you are.

Your heart races in your ears as Ivar steps up squarely in front of you, waggling his head. “Time for the first lesson.” You feel Harald stroking loose strands of your hair off your neck on your right, as Halfdan’s fingers creep along the edge of the ropes across your chest from your left. Ivar sits down on the foot of the bed in front of you, swinging his iron-bound legs up to rest them. The tension in his audible sigh is more ominous than anything else. You doubt that the fact he is intimately acquainted with pain is going to spur him to spare you any. This boy’s reputation for sadism precedes him.

Ivar’s head is now even with your stomach, and less than a foot away. He takes a moment just to admire your body, laid out and propped up like an offering for him. His eyes follow your scars from the shield wall: flank, hip, thigh. There’s another on your chest but it’s been hidden by the ropes restraining you. “The first lesson is this,” he says softly. He catches your eyes, then leans in to kiss the scar on your lower ribs. “We can be good to you.”

As if that was the signal, Harald and Halfdan start moving too. The elder brother wraps his hand around the back of your neck, thumb tracing under your jaw, teasing behind your ear. His younger brother runs one lustful hand down over the cords that bind your chest, claiming your breast in his palm just as soon as Ivar allows it. The young king himself has both hands stroking across your ribcage now, mouth so close to your tender belly that you can feel his breath hot across skin that you cannot protect.

“Relax, Y/N,” Harald murmurs into your ear. You hear panting and realize it’s you. Between the pressure of the ropes on your chest, the helplessness of your situation, and the sensation of six hands on your naked body, you just can’t seem to get enough air. “Try to enjoy it.”

“Get your hands off me,” you shout, pulling away from the feeling of his beard against your cheek. “I will never submit to you.”

“You can try to hold out for a while,” Ivar says, running his rough hands down the tops of your open thighs. “But I don’t think you will be able to resist for long.”

Their hands stroke everywhere. You close your eyes to avoid the sight of Halfdan the Black’s fingers plucking softly at your nipples, but the sensory deprivation only amplifies the warmth of their caresses. You start to wish it hurt, as you feel the blood rushing to the surface of your skin, nerves left tingling everywhere their palms slide. You can feel the lust in the way they grasp and explore, but nothing is painful or too demanding as they softly plunder every inch of your skin.

Your hair had been pulled back for the battle; Harald takes it down and scratches fingers softy through your scalp, as loving as a husband. Halfdan begins to suckle at your left breast and you only barely suppress the moan that tries to leave your lips as he ignites a fiery thread through the center of you. And Ivar, oh gods Ivar is squeezing your ass and drawing his nose across the curls at the top of your mound.

“I will not…” you force yourself to say, though your voice comes out thin and you cannot focus on words long enough to finish the sentence. Ivar’s fingertips are tracing the crease where your inner thigh ends and the lips of your cunt begin.

“Perhaps we should gag her,” Ivar muses. “Save her from feeling like she has to keep thinking of ways to protest.”

“But she hasn’t spit on Harald yet,” Halfdan says wryly. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

“No—” you try to say, but Harald already has a loop of cloth in his hands, which he flips over your head and stuffs between your lips without much trouble. Once it’s secure, and you stop fighting him, he takes great care adjusting it for comfort, making sure your hair is not trapped and your lips aren’t pinched. His face is a strange mix of satisfied and tender as he examines his work. He brushes back a few strands of hair that have dropped into your eyes like a child playing with a doll.

You lose focus on Harald’s face when Ivar the Boneless finally cups his hand over your sex. You shudder and blush as he slides two fingers across your opening, then circles it. “She’s wet,” he announces, eyes flashing up at you in victory. The other four hands on you spasm at the word.

“Let me take her first, Ivar,” Halfdan urges. “I have been dreaming of filling her cunt since I first laid eyes on her.”

“That is not how we are going to do this, and you know that,” Ivar replies. “I promised her no cocks until she asks.”

“Begs,” Harald corrects, as he kisses down the side of your neck and claims your right breast in his brother’s distraction.

Ivar’s fingers find your clit and after only a few skilled little circles you rethink how impossible it will be for him to get you to the point of pleading for more. You clench your teeth around the cloth in your mouth and focus on not making a sound as he kindles you as deftly as your own fingers would.

You cannot even pull away. When you shift your balance on your knees you find only Harald’s strong body behind you, happy to prop you up and steady your hips against Ivar’s insistent hand. Another set of long fingers slides against your ass, creeping between your thighs from behind to gather moisture from your center and swirl against your lips on either side.

Halfdan moans as if your hands weren’t bound tightly against the small of your back, like you had reached out and grabbed his very manhood. “She _is_ wet,” he purrs. “Bastard, you were right about this. She’s ours.”

You want to correct him; the betrayal of your body means nothing about the choices you will make when you finally get free of them. All you can do is toss your head and screech past the gag in frustration, which only seems to spur on both the hands rubbing between your legs.

“Your face, Y/N,” Ivar comments cheekily. “It is getting so flushed.” His eyes drop and he spreads you with two fingers. “And so are the lips of your cunt. Do you want something?”

Against your will, you find yourself longing for Halfdan’s teasing fingers to dive inside of you, relieve the pressure that Ivar has been steadily radiating from his work on your clit. Harald Finehair is firmly at your back now, and has wrapped both arms around you to squeeze your tits and play with your nipples at his leisure. There is no way to ignore, no way to resist so much attention all at once, to your every secret and sensitive place.

Halfdan’s tattooed face is looming next to yours. You try to meet his wild eyes levelly but he sees your need, feels the way you are just holding back from bearing down on him yourself. He plunges two fingers into your depths.

There is no way to stop the throaty moan he draws from you. The satisfaction is immediate and rich, and you let your eyes roll back when he starts finger-fucking you, shallow and quick, matching Ivar whose pace on your clit has not faltered.

Your pride is momentarily forgotten under the sheer bliss of their attentions. You know it is much easier for these rough men to deliver pain than pleasure. You know how they are holding themselves back tonight, hoping to win you over.

You vow to yourself that will never happen, no matter what they do to you next.

“That’s it, Y/N,” Ivar says, shifting his weight closer. “Let us take care of you.”

“That’s all we want,” Harald adds low against your shoulder, “to care for you, and never have to fight you again. We all win, this way.”

You manage to muster a cutting, skeptical laugh, your meaning unmistakable even against the cloth shoved against your tongue. You are a Queen and a free woman, and you will never become a warlord’s pet. Even as Halfdan twists his hand and finds a spot in your inner wall that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

“It will take her time to understand,” Ivar says smoothly. “But she will come to our terms.” He straightens himself up, makes sure you are staring directly into his drowning eyes. “Each one of us will make you come tonight,” he promises. “So that you will have no doubts in your mind, that each will make a worthy master.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Which one of us would you like first?” His fingers slow. Halfdan’s don’t.

How dare he ask that of you, make you complicit in this. Halfdan looms so close that the curtain of his hair brushes your cheek, but you resist the urge to look at him. Ivar might interpret that as a choice.

The silence seems to last forever, Halfdan’s working fingers keeping your arousal high as you stare Ivar the Boneless down. Finally, his face cracks into a wide smile. “Your choice is me, then,” he concludes. He bats his rivals’ hands away from your cunt and breasts, and you tell yourself you’re not disappointed to lose their touch.

Ivar slides in until his body is pressed up against yours, his hip inside your left knee, the cold metal of the brace on his outstretched leg brushing against your right. He lets his upper body rest against your flank, wrapping his right arm around your body, playing with the intricate knotwork that connects your arms to your ankles and forces you to stay in this kneeling position. From the way his weight leans heavy against you, you think his physical position is about as uncomfortable as yours. But his eyes show only heat and desire as he looks up at you and brushes his lips across your nipple.

“I love the ropes like this,” he coos. “Those pesky limbs tucked away. Everything important open, and served up to me.” Your nipple disappears into his mouth, and his left hand runs over your stomach, stroking firm, calming circles that descend lower and lower with every pass.

A wave of warmth is spreading under your skin, out from your abdomen in all directions. The back of your mind is horrified at the way Ivar seems to be able to melt the tension of your anger and fear.

“I used to watch a man that tamed unruly beasts like this,” Ivar informs you. “Rubbing the belly makes them docile, receptive.” His soothing touch starts to feel ominous, but there is nothing you can do to resist. “It bonded them to him. I can make your body do things, Y/N. Whatever I want. I can make it mine without engaging your will at all.” His hand comes down to the crux of your thighs, fingers slipping into your slick. “I can control everything from right here.”

Ivar finds the bud of your clit again and starts working, steady and firm. He turns the attention of his mouth to pulling at your nipples, one and then the other; staccato flashes of fierce pleasure punctuating the steady thunder of the pressure he’s building between your legs.

When you were allies in England, what felt like ages ago, you used to wonder what bedding this fiery son of Ragnar would feel like. Having his body pressed against yours like this, his breath hot against your skin. Now he is your enemy and you want to resist the pleasure, but there is just no escape from the cascade Ivar is setting off inside of you. You hold your breath when the climax comes, hoping at least to hide that from him, not give this ruthless conqueror any satisfaction.

But as soon as you finally release the air from your lungs, a soft whine escapes with it and he knows. He can read it in the shaking of your limbs and the heat of your skin and he holds you, right arm wrapped tight and inescapable. He makes a deep sound of pride and pleasure as you come undone. “That’s it, Y/N. That’s a good girl.”

Your lids fly open to glare at him, protesting the belittling phrase, but you forgot how easily his gaze can bewitch you. His fingers press harder against your clit, sending one more spike of orgasmic aftershock through you while you drown in the oceans of his eyes.

He smirks and keeps circling your bud, not letting you come down. When you can finally tear your eyes from him you let your head sag to the side, the only movement you are capable of. The gesture only attracts the attention of Halfdan the Black. “You’re done,” he says to Ivar. “My turn.”

You feel Ivar’s embrace clench around you, a gesture so quickly quelled you almost might have imagined it. Then he releases you and slides away. “Yes, let her lesson continue.”

Halfdan’s hand comes down on your shoulder, tipping you back until your balance feels precarious and you crane your neck to look up at him where he stands by your side. You try to let nothing show in your eyes but cold defiance. You’re not sure if it’s working, panting as you are from your powerful release. He leans down, bringing his lips to your ear so he can speak low and just for you. “The boy was just a warm-up,” he promises. “I’ll show you what a real man can do.”

Ivar has just clambered to his feet again; he whips his head around to glare at you two with considering eyes, like he heard only a word or two of that and is deciding whether to be insulted. His lips curl back in a false smile that bears more in common with a snarling wolf warning a rival to back down, but he says nothing.

Halfdan pushes you again. “Come hold her, brother. I want her further on her back than this.”

Harald Finehair, your former ally, your old commander on the battlefield, now the greatest threat to your kingdom aside from the wolf pup who just released you, slides in against your back and draws your shoulders to his chest as they rock you back over your heels. You keep your head from resting against him, denying even the illusion of intimacy between you.

When they get you settled, you are laying back on Harald’s body and staring between your own naked knees at his brother’s eager face. Halfdan centers himself beneath you and slides both hands down the back of your thighs.

“I am going to show you what you have been missing, Y/N,” he says with a wicked promise in his eyes. “You are going to regret putting me off all those times that you did.” Even when you were allied in those early years, you always knew that ultimately the brothers from Vestfold were going to be your enemies. Halfdan had tried to court you, then tried to bed you, and though you found him fair of face and body, you knew you could not bind yourself so firmly to the men that would one day surely try to take your kingdom away. But perhaps he was right; perhaps a political marriage would have been preferable to your current predicament, stripped of kingdom, clothing, and choices of any kind.

Halfdan leans in and drags his lips down your inner thigh while his fingers stroke your slit, just teasing, up and down. He closes his eyes and breathes dramatically against your skin. “For so long I have wondered, alone in my bed, what you smell like.” He fills his lungs with you again, sliding closer to your center. “What you taste like.” He opens his jaw wide and nips at the bulge of your inner thigh abruptly, making your body jerk self-protectively. Fruitlessly. You can’t even close your legs.

A warning growl rumbles out of Harald’s chest at your back, and his hands soothe down your belly.

Halfdan only scoffs at his brother’s chiding. “Women don’t always want it gentle, brother.” He flips his hair from his eyes, looking up at you though he continues to speak to Harald. “Y/N is a great warrior. I’ll wager her tastes run at least a little rough.”

You refuse to react. To shake your head ‘no’ would show weakness, and to nod would only encourage him, imply that you were a willing participant in any of this.

“Well,” Halfdan sighs after waiting a few moments for your answer, “we will have plenty of time to explore that later.” His mouth sinks down toward the tender and needy flesh between your thighs, your treacherous cunt already tingling in anticipation of him.

You don’t want to watch but you can’t look away as Halfdan extends his tongue lasciviously and parts the swollen lips of your pussy with it, his eyes locked on yours the whole time. He laps at you firm but gentle, the corners of his lips turning up in a smile when he reads the pleasure making your gaze go soft and unfocused.

His mouth seals over your clit and he sucks softly, moaning right after you do. His eyes are closed now and he looks like he’s savoring a ripe summer fruit as he works you over. You don’t want to prove him right but gods, the way he seems to be so fully enjoying doing this to you does make your mind flash to how much joy you could have been finding in his bed for years before now.

The thought is fleeting. You remind yourself that this man lapping and sucking at you has ice in his heart, blood on his hands and love only for his brother. Halfdan the Black earned his name again most recently when he spoke pretty words of loyalty and friendship to Bjorn Ironside, sharing risk and adventure with him for months before stabbing him in the back as soon as he moved to block Harald’s interests. The man is a snake, you tell yourself, and no matter how magically his tongue might slither against and within you, he can never be trusted.

Harald’s hands slide covetously over your body while his brother feasts on you, and at first you welcome the distraction. It would be some small victory if Halfdan could fail to make you climax. But soon the stroking of those extra palms proves only to relax you, doing nothing but opening your being to the lewd rhythm of his brother’s tongue.

Your eyes seek out Ivar, who is now leaning against his crutch and the main tent pole, staring at you. You’re not sure why you thought looking at him would help, or what you even wanted him to help you with. You don’t want to think that his plan is already working, that he’s already making you dependent upon him, but he lowers his brow and smiles slow and full when you catch his eyes with the anguish apparent in yours. “She’s close,” he announces cruelly. He leans forward with a little waggle to his head. “Come for him, girl. It’s alright. Give us what we want. Let it go.”

Harald’s hands scoop up both your breasts, sliding up to pull at your nipples firm and steady. He rolls them between thumb and forefinger, just shy of pain, then releases them with a twist and starts over. You watch the calloused hands that held the sword that cut down so many of your warriors, now plundering your flesh. Slide, pinch, twist. The hands that would grasp all of Norway if they could.

Halfdan pauses for a ragged breath and attacks your clit with renewed strength. His skill is impossible to escape, impossible to ignore, and you feel him wringing a climax from your body like you’re being pushed off a crumbling cliff. Harald flicks your nipples one more time and all you can do is close your eyes and keen as your body seizes up and you fall into another round of bliss.

Your eyes plead with Ivar again. _Surely that counts for both of them? Can we be done now?_

“She doesn't look quite finished yet,” Ivar announces, his glittering gaze silently laughing at you.

Harald Finehair purrs in your ear. “Mmm, it’s my turn now.”

You thrash your head; through your post-orgasmic haze you still find anger burning for this greedy, arrogant king. It’s his ambition that’s the cause of all your ruin. You would curse him if you could speak, but you can’t and Harald can simply ignore your ire, stroke you softly like a lover and pretend you want his fingers tender in your hair and lips soft against your neck. His hand comes down to rub your belly firm and broad and pacifying, like Ivar did.

“Fight me now if you like,” he rumbles softly, “but I am going to make you mine.”

He only narrowly avoids your attempt to headbutt him.

“She seems uncomfortable,” Harald announces. “Let us help her stretch her legs.”

Halfdan’s eyebrows climb. “Really, brother?”

“A kind master is always better loved than a cruel one.”

Halfdan shrugs. “Your funeral.” The blonde brother studies your face with an unreadable look as he helps pull you back up to kneeling and give Harald access to the knots that bind you. You breathe heavy around the gag between your teeth and glare back up at him.

Harald seems to be having some trouble behind your back. “I need her on her belly, to get this undone.” Halfdan gives you a private little smirk, sharing a laugh at his brother with you before moving to help. Both men stand and square their stances on either side of your immobile body. They grasp under your folded arms, and at the knotted rope near the small of your back, and you feel the bonds around your chest and thighs tighten sharply at the strain. The ropes cut into you as the warriors lift you bodily, squeezing most of the air out of your lungs as they turn and twist you. You crash back into the bed on your side, but only for as long as it takes them to change their grip. Then the ropes squeeze tight again and they lower you chest-first into the center of the mattress.

You turn your head to either side, but you cannot really see any of the three men now as you lay flat on your belly and wait. For the moment no one is touching you, but it’s more ominous than it is a relief.

“She looks good like that,” Halfdan remarks, voice dripping with fresh lust. Your knees are still parted, bound ankles held in the air above your exposed ass. You try to curl them in and cover yourself, but it’s not much use, and you wonder afresh if the squirming is only more enticing.

Hands stroke over your ass, down the sensitive backs of your thighs and up again. With a grasping squeeze you are spread open further, and you hear more than one heavy, masculine breath behind you. You try not to think of how hard their cocks must be, pressing urgently against their trousers, held in check only by Ivar’s promise to you.

Thick fingers intrude once more, their passage eased by the humiliating amount of sleek wetness your cunt keeps pumping out for your conquerors. You try hard to stay still as they slide in and out of you, over and over, but the penetration feels so good after two orgasms have primed you so well, and your hips just might be bucking softly in time to their rhythm. And since you can’t see any of them, you can pretend those aren’t Harald’s fingers making you want to sing.

You didn’t even realize someone was loosening the bonds on your legs until the resistance holding your ankles in the air disappears. You kick out instantly, as well as you can with feet still bound together. You contact a warm body with a thud and Halfdan curses. The hand in your cunt disappears.

“Weren’t you the one telling me to be careful, brother?” Harald laughs. Ivar’s soft chuckle rings through the room as well. Someone sits on your thighs and there is no more resisting as the ropes around your ankles are removed. “Your legs must be cramped, Y/N,” Harald continues. “Relax, let me rub them for you.”

His attempt to be the nice one is laughable. You have no leverage at all but you kick your heels up at him anyway, symbolic resistance the only thing you have left.

The next rumble out of Harald’s chest sounds displeased. He stands up, but maintains control of her legs. “Turn her over. I want to see her face for this. And I want her to see mine.”

Halfdan seems a little less cheerful when he steps back into your field of vision. He slaps one side of your ass, hard, before taking his grip on the ropes to haul you over. “No more kicking.”

The pain of his blow is almost a relief; it’s the most honest thing any of them has done since you woke up like this. They flip your helpless upper body as easily as a cord of wood, and though you try to catch the bed with your feet there’s really nothing you can do to stop them.

You bring your knees as close as you can to your chest once you land on your back, heels poised to kick out at anyone that comes near. Harald tries it anyway and gets a glancing blow to the gut. Don’t ever let anyone say you didn’t go down fighting.

Ivar’s voice cuts through your defensive haze. “You have to know that struggling is only making this more fun for us.” His eyes are gleaming, the way they do from atop his chariot just before he shouts the order that brings two armies crashing together. Harald’s face is tinged with the battle rush too, especially after you sent pain blooming through his stomach. And Halfdan always looks ready for war. Ivar is not done with his observations: “But maybe it’s making it more fun for you too.”

You shriek through the gag and kick at him, even though he’s too far away for it to land.

Ivar steps forward with his crutch and a leering grin. “You want to fight some more?”

“I think she’s asking to be restrained again,” King Harald suggests. “More intimately, perhaps. Maybe she wants to feel you two holding her legs down while I bring her to ecstasy again.”

And that’s how you end up with all three of them looming over you while Harald Finehair’s fingers play with your swollen clit, the calloused hands of warriors on either side pressing into your thighs and stopping you from either fighting or retreating.

Harald wastes no time in building any more suspense. As soon as he feels you begin to melt into his hand, he slides three fingers over his tongue with a lascivious smirk and then pushes them into your cunt.

You want it to hurt and it doesn’t. Your body has been begging for such an assault for too long now, after so much build-up, so many dark promises flashing in three men’s eyes. Your eyes burn a little looking up at their grinning faces, but closing them feels worse. Then it’s just you and the scorching pleasure and you feel like you’ll give in too easily.

Ivar’s pupils are blown so big his eyes are barely blue at all, his jaw fallen slack as his gaze flicks rapidly between Harald’s pumping hand and your crumbling face. The dark youth would look almost innocent if his eyes weren’t also sliding lovingly over the ropes that bind your chest and arms, flushing his cheeks with a sadistic joy.

Halfdan is enjoying the show too, and you wonder fleetingly how often he shares moments like this with his brother. Their coordination is so easy and the fire in Halfdan’s eyes is so deep. He doesn’t seem jealous; he who once aspired to marry you is now watching his brother plunder your depths with rapturous gaze and eager grip on your trembling thigh.

And Harald. Harald’s face looms over yours, drawing closer and closer as he finger-fucks you so fast and hard he’s breaking a sweat. His eyes flash triumphant and hungry both at once and it is impossible for you to hide what you are feeling from him. The intensity and the deep craving satisfaction are driving almost all your self-control out of the way, your cunt screaming for as much contact, as much pressure as it can get, hips tilting without your permission to drive him into the perfect angle.

His smile grows wider and more self-satisfied, the closer you get to breaking. You hate to see your enemy so smug. Especially when he leans closer, strokes your jaw with his thumb and croons into your ear. “That’s it, my sweet one. You look so right like this. You beautiful thing, so helpless beneath me. Let the rush take you; I want to see you drowning with pleasure.”

You try to glare back at him but there’s just no way to hide the ecstasy starting to suffuse you, the craving you feel threatening to turn your eyes to beggars. You thrash your head and turn to Halfdan, preferring to plead for mercy rather than let Harald see desire in your eyes.

It’s not until you look at Halfdan the Black that you realize he’s got his hips pressed against your thigh where he’s holding you down, and with subtle yet unmistakable movements he’s rubbing his iron-hard erection against your flesh. His eyes blaze when you focus on his face. “What is it, Y/N,” he asks, tossing his hair and raising a brow, not breaking the rhythm of his hips that matches the pace of Harald’s fingers, “do you want me again instead?”

Harald growls at him and he snickers. You consider playing their competitiveness off each other, but you’re not sure how that would help you right now. A strategy to save for later. You turn away from Halfdan before he can misconstrue anything as agreement.

Harald redoubles his efforts, pinching at your nipples before rolling his thumb against your clit while his right hand continues to pummel your needy hole. Your brows crease; you feel like your body is about to fly apart. You bite down on the gag to keep from groaning and keening like an animal and try to distract yourself from this pleasure you don’t want to feel by looking at Ivar.

Ivar sees the pleas in your eyes and responds only with soft encouragement, a caricature of a friendly face which bends his brows almost tenderly in the middle of his savage glee. He nods along with the thoughts his drowning eyes beam at you: _Take this for us. Let your body make itself a slave to our desires. You want it as much as I do._

Harald leans forward suddenly, drawing your attention to his inked face now only inches from your own. “It’s not enough, is it,” his rumbly voice asks. His palm slides over your cheek as you examine the storm brewing in his eyes. His breaths are coming hard and fast too and his lust for you is plain; he wants to mount you like a bull. “My fingers feel good, but you know what will feel better.” His hand slides behind your head and tugs at the knot of your gag. “You’re so hot, and slick, and tight,” he praises, his voice a raspy whisper, then he’s tearing the cloth from your mouth. “Ask me for it. Tell me you want my cock in you.”

It takes a moment to wet your mouth again, then your answer flies through the short space between your faces and spatters his cheeks. Harald’s eyes flash with a different sort of heat, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off and he doesn’t stop fucking you with his hand. He bends his face even closer and stares you down, curling his fingers just a little to focus on the most sensitive place inside you.

For just one moment, your mind flashes to the image of King Harald mounting you right now, pulling his cock out and thrusting into you without regard for your wishes, as he so easily could. Just a fleeting thought but it’s all it takes to shatter you. Your body twists and convulses in the unwilling orgasm his fingers drag up from your depths and coax along to blaze along your skin like a sacrificial pyre. You can only hope it will immolate everyone.

When your sobbing moans finally slow, Harald slides his fingers gently away. Finally you let your eyes stay closed, unwilling to face any more of what your enemies have in store for you. The bonds on your thighs are finally loosened, enough so your legs can be pushed gently together. New ropes are wrapped around your ankles and you hear Harald humming some ancient lullaby as he draws the blanket back over your body.

Ivar is instructing the others again while you feign catatonia. “Everything she eats, comes from our hands. She never sleeps alone. And every time she comes, you make sure she’s staring into your eyes. We will bond her. We will tame her. She will become ours, and she will give us everything.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ivar makes it sound like he thinks this isn’t rape because their dicks stay in their pants. Let me assure, this is still rape. I know the difference even if he doesn’t.
> 
> If you enjoyed this piece, you might also like The Cat That Got The Cream: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11967456


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